


Red Omen

by AlphaRedLeader



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, On Hiatus, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, rewriting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaRedLeader/pseuds/AlphaRedLeader
Summary: The color is an omen - red for blood, for war, for control. The rise and fall of the Red Army and its Leader; the rebellions incited by their rule, and its effects on the people involved.ON HIATUS - REWRITING





	1. So This is It

Deep in the heart of a reclaimed warehouse, buried in three feet of cold northern snow, lay a darkened room. Three of this square room’s four walls were sound-proof and paneled in rich oak panels – the fourth housed a massive screen, currently displaying a red emblem on a coal backdrop.

In the center of the room was a worn desk, of dark wood. Its surface was scratched slightly, but otherwise it was in pristine condition, and the chair at its mouth was of high-quality dark leather. On the desk stood a golden nameplate, and in the chair sat a man.

He could have been well into his forties – his caramel hair was graying slightly, and his scarred face was lined with years of stress. Absently, he flipped through old wanted posters with an air of fondness, as though he were looking at old photographs.

The screen flickered, the red emblem replaced by bright red text.

**Incoming transmission. Receive?** **Y/N**

The man at the desk turned in his chair, placing the posters in his lap. He leaned back and rested his elbows on the armrests of the dark leather chair. A twitch of his right wrist, and the screen responded accordingly by highlighting **Y** in white. The screen flickered again. The man steepled his gloved fingers in front of him.

The man on the screen had aged as well, though time had been kinder, it seemed. His cold brown eyes narrowed, settling on the man in the dark room.

“So, this is it.” The man said.

“It seems it is.” The Red Leader responded, reaching into his coat pocket for a cigar and lighting it. He chewed the end between his teeth.

“I expected more of a fight out of you,” chided the man on the screen almost humorously. “I’m a little disappointed in you.”

The Red Leader shook his head, pinning the cigar between his fingers so he could talk.

“We don’t always get what we want, Edd.” He pointed out, motioning to himself with a nod. “When are you coming.”

Edd raised his eyebrows ever so slightly – it hadn’t been a question, but rather a statement. The Red Leader seemed much smaller, sitting in his dark office. Defeated, and dejected somehow.

“I have an extraction team coming to pick you up at 0300 hours.” Edd confirmed. “What remains of your troops?”

The Red Leader sighed deeply, set aside the posters in his lap, and rested his elbows on his knees. Bowed over like this, grief shadowed his face.

“Hardly a thing – a few are still here, but they will not interfere.” He said quietly. Edd’s noncommittal grunt was all the response he needed.

They lapsed into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Given the circumstances, things could be much worse. One or both _could_ be lying in a ditch with a bullet in their head. But, despite that small pinprick of good news, there wasn’t much else that the Leader could call ‘good news.’

Edd should be rejoicing, he’d won the _war_ , but here he was, stern-faced on a vid-call with the defeated Leader; worse, he looked as somber as a man who had _lost_.

Maybe he had. _We both lost, in some way_ , the Leader thought bitterly. The bad guy never wins – but who was the bad guy, really? When the Leader looked up, he noticed that Edd was no longer gazing into the camera, but was in fact watching out a window to his right.

Snow fell softly against the windowsill. Edd sighed deeply.

“My team will be on their way soon. I’ll see you at my headquarters, then.” He said, almost disinterested. His somber gaze fixed on the Leader. “Merry Christmas, Tord.”

The call cut out, and the cigar fell from between the Leader’s fingers. He smashed it beneath his heel.

_Merry Christmas. What a joke._ He slipped the glove off of his right hand, admiring the freshly-shined mechanical parts. The lens on his palm glinted in the light reflecting from the screen. Heat spun beneath the metal’s surface, a testament to the weapon beneath the plates of his arm.

_Where_ did _I go wrong?_


	2. Seeing Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End, apparently, was a thing that happened. 
> 
> Paul and Pat are okay guys.

The explosion was deafening, and the earth shook when what remained of the magnificent mech came down. Its pieces lay scattered about, most of them burning, others crushed beneath the weight and force of coming down.

When the cockpit rained down like a meteor, a second explosion occurred, to the pilot’s right. The blast damaged the nerves beneath his skin, and the fire that ensued burned.

Tord lay there, stunned, for a moment. Then, his hand fell towards the emergency contact button; only a few minutes later, a car pulled up.

Patryk and Paul barreled out of the car, each trying to beat the other to it. In the end, it was Tord who dragged himself from the wreckage, down an arm and bleeding profusely. Paul cleaned up what he could of the wreck, while Patryk approached Tord slowly with a roll of bandages.

“Sir,” he said, reaching for the wounded arm. Tord jerked away bodily; his mangled arm did not move, however. The nerves were shot and the bones beneath torn skin were shattered like glass.

Instead of letting Patryk bandage the wounded arm, Tord handed over one of the mechanical arms that had been meant to assist him in the cockpit. It was worse for the wear, but fixable, and Patryk took it gingerly.

Tucking it beneath his arm, he set to work wrapping the bandages tightly around the torn and destroyed flesh. Tord cursed the action as futile – the arm was dead, so bandaging it was a lost cause – but Patryk insisted on the reasoning that if the man was to stay alive and healthy, he would need to at least stop the blood.

Once Paul got his hands on the arm, he set to fixing it up with the few tools they had on site. He’d much rather be dealing with Tord, quite frankly. Mechanics was more Pat’s thing, but they’d been living together for over a year and when one lives together that long, they start to pick things up.

Even after the bleeding had stopped, Tord sat on that hillside. Paul and Patryk waited in the car, though it wasn’t for very long.

“I’m going to tell him to get in the car.” Patryk said at last. Paul reached for his arm.

“Don’t.” he warned, shaking his head. “Just let him be. He needs a moment.”

Patryk sighed; Paul _was_ right, but still… night was falling, and Pat wanted to be home. He reached for the door handle, and was halfway out when Paul caught his hand. Patryk leaned back into the car.

“I’m just going to check on him,” Pat assured the other man. Paul’s eyebrows furrowed in worry; to alleviate the man’s stress, Patryk leaned in and touched his lips to the corner of Paul’s mouth. “It’ll be okay.”

Paul let Pat’s hand slide from his fingers. He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned against the car door, staring out at the darkening hillside. Patryk was leaning over Tord; Paul couldn’t see what either of them were saying.

The man reached for a cigarette out of the carton in his coat pocket; he fiddled with it between his fingers, rather than lighting it, until it was crinkled and slightly bent. He remembered Pat saying something about not liking him smoking in the car, so he put it back in the carton and fiddled with the carton’s top instead.

Paul tracked the turn of the hill, following its darkening silhouette until it reached Pat, tracing the man’s outline, then Tord’s then back down the hill. Pat was sitting beside Tord now, a hand on the man’s knee. Paul very nearly got out to go join them, but just as he reached for the door handle, he saw Tord stand up.

Pat hauled himself to his feet, leading the way towards the car. The door opened; Paul jammed the cigarette carton back into his jacket pocket, hoping to be discreet but failing. Pat sat down in the driver’s seat, starting the car. He reached over the shifter, squeezed Paul’s knee, then moved to put the car in reverse.

As they began the drive, an uncomfortable silence fell over the three.

Tord’s eye – only one was working, the other swollen and scarred and filmed in red – caught sight of the mechanical arm on the backseat beside him.

“This was a failure.” He said bitterly, and Paul turned to look at him. Pat swallowed thickly, eyes focused on the road. “But it is only a minor setback.”

 _That sounds awfully optimistic_ , Paul noted, as the man in the backseat reached for the mechanical arm. _I wonder what he wants to do with that._

The next few minutes passed in silence, the only sound being the hum of the engine and the methodical fiddling of Tord’s working thumb against the fingers of the arm in his lap. At last, Tord spoke up.

“We have a doctor on-site, yes?” he asked. Paul looked over at Pat, who nodded.

“Yes sir,” Paul said aloud, turning his head to look back. Tord was staring ahead, at the road through the windshield.

“Good. When we arrive, I want to meet with him immediately about this.” He said firmly, looking down his nose at the arm. Paul swallowed thickly.

_Oh._

“Yes,” he bit his lip. “Yes sir.”

“With this…incident, we are going to be behind on schedule,” Tord went on; Patryk glanced at Paul, who was watching Tord with uncertainty.

“Yes, sir. What do you plan to do?” Patryk asked, eyes back on the road. Another, say, fifteen minutes until they arrived at their destination – he knew the road like the back of his hand.

Tord frowned, furrowed his brow; he leaned back in his seat.

“Can we spare a few soldiers to recruit?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. “Send whoever is available. Send yourselves if you need to. Take a town’s worth of people, take a country's worth of people, _who cares!_ ” he snapped, baring his teeth in a snarl and fixing Paul in a single-eyed gaze. “We aren’t going anywhere if we don’t have enough people to take anything!”

His roaring fit ebbed, as the flesh on his neck tore with his movement and pain bloomed up his right side. Paul and Patryk exchanged careful looks.

The car pulled into the garage of a small house. As the door rolled shut, Patryk shut the car off and opened the door. He peered in the backseat at Tord, who was still fuming with rage.

“I’ll contact our headquarters inside. You should get some rest.” He advised, and flinched only slightly when Tord whipped his head around – wincing, as the lacerations on his neck and shoulder shifted and stung – with his mouth half open.

The berating words died on Tord’s tongue, and he shut his mouth dumbly without comment.

Paul met Patryk at the door leading into the house, leaning up slightly to catch the other man in a chaste kiss before pushing his way inside. Pat watched him traverse the hall, then turn the corner into the living room. He held the door for Tord, who did not look at him as he passed but simply held his wounded arm close to his body.

Pat shook his head, beginning to walk to the kitchen.

* * *

 

Tord sat on the guest bed, fresh bandages on his arm. His face and neck were caked in antibiotic ointment, it seemed – Pat’s doctoring was mediocre at best, at least compared to Paul, but the latter of the two had been occupied at the time with making dinner.

He glanced at the door, hearing footsteps down the hall, but they passed by without consequence and Tord let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The entire situation was a setback, and it was making him look bad. Thankfully, Paul and Patryk had never judged him, and were loyal until the end, but that didn’t make the last twenty four hours look terrible to the rest of his growing army.

It could hardly be called an army, Tord reminded himself. It was more a single military unit, with only a few men above a hundred under his command. They were loyal, but it wasn’t enough to conquer nations.

That robot could have conquered nations. It had been built with conquest in mind, and would have been the face and driving force of his legacy.

Tord lay back, letting his head hit the pillow with a soft _whump_. He glared up at the ceiling, pushed his hair out of his face with his working hand, and tried to ignore the empty feeling in his gut. How long would he lay here, feeling sorry for himself?

The man was miserable, aching and in pain. How could he lead an army with injuries like these, he worried, and who would follow him?

Tord closed his eye, giving himself a moment to visualize. In his mind’s eye he stood on a platform, over an extensive army and flags – his flags – erected throughout the crowd. He was giving a speech, hands clasped behind his back. The crowd saluted. Another nation under his control – he had met with their previous leader to discuss the terms of surrender, and a new regional leader was being put in place to work under him.

A knock on the door dragged him unceremoniously from his thoughts, and he mumbled a response. Paul pushed the door open with his hip, balancing a plate of spaghetti on one hand and holding a glass of milk in the other. He set both down on the bedside table, smiling sympathetically.

“A helicopter is going to come to pick us up tomorrow.” He said, before seeing himself out. He was at the door when Tord spoke up.

“Did Patryk tell them what happened?” he opened his eye, but didn’t sit up. Paul nodded.

“Yes, sir. Your general has also reported a growing unrest among the ranks, but she suspects it can be afforded to a lack of assignments. They are eager to get out in the field, it seems.”

Tord bit his lip, careful to avoid the long cut on the right side that split his lip open. He hadn’t been expecting that, especially after losing the objective as badly as he did. He nodded, allowing himself a small smirk as Paul closed the door.

The man closed his eyes again, changing the vision he saw. Now, he bore the scars of a man once defeated, and his right arm was mechanical in nature. His people rallied when he called out to them; flags waved in his honor.

Everywhere he looked, he saw _red._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its 4 AM but I promised myself I would get this out before I sleep. If in the next 24 hours you reread this chapter and something seems different, I probably edited something that my current editing missed.


	3. Regroup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tord can't decide if he wants to numb the pain or feel it. 
> 
> Oh, and someone might get shot.

Helicopter blades sliced through the cold morning air, a loud hum announcing the vehicle’s arrival upon the roof of an old warehouse. Turning off the engines, the pilot stepped out.  
They saluted, as Paul and Patryk jumped out and moved to help Tord, who twisted his wounded face into a snarl and pushed his way out himself. Both soldiers stepped away, exchanging nervous glances.

Every step Tord took felt like fire in his skin. There was significantly more damage than he thought; he’d need serious medical attention, and fast if he was to continue leading his army. Regardless of the unending pain he felt as he made his way towards the roof access, the man was far too determined to let himself collapse no matter how much he wanted to.

He’d taken too many painkillers the night previous for it to be healthy, it was taking its toll and he was out of it. Paul and Patryk had berated him with parental concern, but even that didn’t stop Tord from taking a variety of painkillers like candy. He’d deal with the consequences later, he told them, and then promptly threw up.

All in all, Tord had had a shit night.

Once he was inside, he was immediately escorted to the doctor onsite and ultimately carted towards the makeshift medical wing, leaving Paul and Patryk to handle affairs.

Watching Tord disappear down the hall, Paul turned to the woman who had since joined them. She was tall, with serious features and bright eyes. He nodded to her.

“General Pillsworth. What’s morale look like?” Patryk interrupted, and together the three set off down the hall. General Pillsworth – first name Ann – spoke in a clipped and cold tone.

“Aside from general unrest, morale has been surprisingly high in the Leader’s absence. Few arguments, fewer fights.” She said, hands clasped in the small of her back. “Word hasn’t gotten out of this mission’s failure, but it will soon enough. You know how things are.”

Paul nodded grimly. “Nothing ever stays a secret once it gets around.”

“Naturally.” Pillsworth continued. “That being said, we have a number of new recruits that have already been put through basic training. Anything further must be assigned by the Leader, or yourselves if necessary. I’ve left the paperwork in the drop box outside his office.”

Very briefly Ann’s gaze softened. “He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

Patryk and Paul exchanged a tender glance. It was Patryk who piped up.

“We’re not sure at this point.” He said at length, as they paused in the hallway. “He’s been in a lot of pain.”

Ann pressed her lips into a thin line. “The Leader is a strong man. He’ll pull through.” Delicately she touched Patryk’s shoulder, smiled at both, and took off down the hall. The two men were quick to catch up.

“General,” Paul stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Tell me we have at least some good news to tell him when he comes back.”

Ann Pillsworth turned slowly; she knew there was a lot riding on her shoulders. She’d been the sole authority for quite some time during the Leader’s absence, and he took his two most trusted with him. It wore on her; despite this, she was still a woman of her word, and if they wanted good news, she would deliver.

“We’ve recently received word of another sighting of our creature.” She said, watching with mild delight as both men’s eyes widened. “At the Leader’s convenience, I advise that we have a meeting to decide just what to do with this new information.”

Patryk gaped at her, and then at Paul. They’d wanted good news, but this…

“That’s phenomenal news, General Pillsworth, thank you. We’ll keep you updated on the Leader’s status.” He said quickly, discreetly taking Paul’s hand. Ann raised a brow, but said nothing. With a quick salute, she turned on her heel and headed down the hall.

The two ducked around a corner. They absolutely could not tell Tord about this, even if he’d find out eventually. The last thing that broken man needed was another reason to get fanatical.

Their agreement was made in the form of a silent nod.

* * *

 

When Tord at long last re-emerged from the poorly-stocked infirmary, he seemed to be in even worse shape than he’d been before. Namely, he was missing an arm entirely and the right side of his face was covered in all means of bandages.

By now he had started refusing painkillers, insisting on feeling every ounce of pain. No one could quite figure out why, though, until he started going on and on about getting revenge.

It seemed that revenge was all that was on Tord’s mind since the incident.

He kept the harpoon in his office, both with the intent to weaponize it in the future, and as a reminder that he would never truly be finished, not until he’d seen his revenge through and had the world - or as much of it as he could manage - in the palm of his hand.

There was a lot of work to be done, and a lot to get back under control - first and foremost, his army.

The handful of soldiers was hardly enough to conquer nations, but they were loyal and had been largely trained by Tord himself; if they hadn’t, they had likely been under Patryk or Paul’s guidance. Either way, there were none better.

Since the setback, many of his soldiers hadn’t even seen him; he knew that rumors were already spreading about his condition, and not all of them were satisfying to hear.

Some said he would recover quickly, and get back to work even faster. Others insinuated that the Leader was nearing his end. As such, Tord’s first order of business would be to put an end to those rumors.

Despite the fact that he was in more pain than he’d care to admit, the Leader gathered his men. He’d had very little time to prepare any sort of speech; he realized this only when it was too late, and they were already expecting him to speak.

The silence that fell over his gathered soldiers was deafening, broken only by the quiet pacing of their Leader. His remaining hand shoved in his pocket, Tord moved slow and deliberate, like a predator eyeing his prey. His shoes against the floor were the only sound, and each step sounded like thunder.

“We had a lot riding on this.” His voice broke the silence, causing some of his men to flinch slightly. There was a sharp edge underlying his otherwise frigid, calm tone. “That does not, however, mean that we’ve failed.”

Pausing in his movements, he raised his hand as though to wave the problem away entirely.

“I need a select few soldiers - you, the three of you, and you two over there. I want you to report to General Pillsworth for your next assignment. We’re relying on you now.” he pointed, and the mentioned soldiers looked between themselves, shoulders sagging as though feeling the weight of responsibility. Even so, they seemed eager to please.

Tord went on. “I have a few other tentative assignments for the rest of you, but right now I want to put your mind at ease. This,” he said, motioning to the absence of his right arm. “Will not kill me. Some of you, I will not name names, seem to think otherwise.”

“What about the-” A voice piped up in the back, but was quickly silenced by the hand of someone beside them covering their mouth. The Leader narrowed his single visible eye.

He moved forward, parting the crowd with only a glance, making his way towards the back. It seemed as though the air around him had all but frozen. The man leaned down, staring the soldier in the eye; she was short of stature, overall quite wiry in form and with dark hair and equally dark eyes.

“What about the what?” Tord asked, raising a brow. The short soldier shook her head.

“It’s...it’s nothing, sir, forgive me for my outburst.” she said, fumbling over her words. The Leader seemed disinterest, seeing clearly through that lie.

“Tell me.” he growled, putting his hand on her shoulder. Quiet murmurs filled the crowd behind him, but they fell silent with a glance. “What is your name, soldier?”

She hesitated for only a second, but it was long enough for Tord to tighten his grip.

“Thorne, sir, Talia Thorne.” she said, gritting her teeth to keep from wincing under his vice-like hold. The Leader chuckled.

“Alright, Talia Thorne. Why don’t you tell me just what you were going to say, and this won’t end badly for you.”

It was clear his words struck fear into her heart, because she flinched at the mere sound of his voice. Hesitating, she fumbled with her hands for a moment before dropping them to her sides.

“The monster, sir. It was spotted recently.” she said at last. The Leader narrowed his visible eye, curling his scarred lip.

Crossing his arms, he moved to push Talia in front of everyone, holding her at arm’s length. For a moment the crowd of soldiers watched with bated breath - what was he planning on doing?

“Is she telling the truth?” he asked, voice loud. “Or do I need to demonstrate what I do to liars in my army?” There was a gleam in his eye that spoke of madness in hushed, muted tones.

Silence. Tord shook his head, tsk tsk tsk. “Do you want a fellow soldier to die?” He taunted. The crowd as one seemed to shift uneasily, but no one said anything. He turned to the soldier next to her, a man of short stature and dark hair, with piercing eyes.

“You, your name.” he growled. The man stood up straighter, determined not to show weakness.

“Sebastian Berghsted, sir.” he said quickly, eyes narrowed. The Leader scoffed.

“Shoot her.” he commanded, thrusting Talia in his direction. He arched a brow at the gathered soldiers, some of whom were beginning to look quite frightened. Tord’s face twisted into a snarl. “Unless someone would like to jump to her defense?”

No one seemed to want to say anything, and Talia Thorne glanced to Sebastian Berghsted, lowering her gaze. The Leader stepped away, looking expectantly at his soldier. Sebastian raised his gun begrudgingly, knowing that if he didn’t, the Red Leader would kill him.

Silence broken by the crack of a gunshot. Talia’s body jerked, and she opened her eyes slowly. No pain, no quick end, nothing. Sebastian hadn’t been the one to fire - Tord turned on his heel, gaze dark.

Standing behind the muzzle of a smoking gun, Paul had fired just over Seb’s shoulder, and his bullet was buried in the wall. Patryk stood close by, and Paul had his free hand thrown over the man’s chest, holding him back.

“She’s telling the truth.” Paul said aloud. “We were going to tell you, if you could stop being so goddamn impatient.”

Tord sucked in a sharp breath, looking cross. He glanced at his soldiers, some terrified, others waiting nervously.

“Dismissed. All of you, get the hell out of my sight!” The Leader roared.

Within minutes, the hall was empty, save for five - Sebastian, gun lowered; Talia Thorne, too afraid to move. Tord, all but shaking with rage, Paul and Patryk with nothing but a single gun between them and the Leader.

“Berghsted. Dismissed.” Tord sneered. “Thorne, I’ll deal with you later. Get out.”

When they had gone - Seb’s arm around Talia’s shoulder, keeping her grounded - Paul slowly lowered his weapon.

“Threatening soldiers, Tord? Really? Are you that pissed off at everyone, or did those painkillers you took at home screw up your head already?” He growled. Tord opened his mouth to say something, but Patryk quickly intervened.

“That’s enough, both of you,” he said firmly, prying the gun from Paul’s hand. He set it down, kicked it away. “There’s a lot going on right now. We just need to take a second to regroup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ann Pillsworth belongs to deadlyfangedartist.tumblr.com  
> Talia Thorne belongs to me (redd-leader.tumblr.com)  
> Sebastian Berghsted belongs to new-veqas.tumblr.com


	4. Author's Note - TBD

Hey everyone!

Red Omen will be updating soon, but not in the way you might think. Thanks to some recent events, I realized that much of Red Omen's original plotline was very messy and difficult to follow, and full of continuity errors that would make the finished product seem choppy and cliche where it shouldn't be. Considering that I want the best for this fic, I'm doing a few things to get it to top quality. 

For one thing, I found myself a beta reader, who as of thus far is reading all of my works (including the chapters of Bestial and a fic that I've yet to release or even mention, Rewired) and helping me improve my writing. This is working out perfectly, and will make the quality of the upcoming chapters much higher. 

For another, I'm rewriting much of the plot and therefore will be rewriting the first few chapters so that everything runs smoothly from here on out. The originals will be kept archived, and I can be contacted on my tumblr at redd-leader.tumblr.com if you'd like the share link to read the original chapters; beyond that, this version of Red Omen will be terminated, and the new one will take its place as soon as the first five chapters are written, which will be released a week apart. After that, I hope to keep updates constant, whether on Red Omen, Bestial, or Rewired. 

Thank you for your time, your patience, and your support, and I look forward to writing and bringing you the next chapters of Red Omen.

\- Redd

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This fic is my pride and joy, and while updates are slow and may seem nonexistent, your support helps and makes me want to continue! Consider leaving a comment telling me what you like and what you'd like to see in the future!
> 
> I also need OCs to supplement this fic! Got a red army OC/sona that you'd like to see in writing? Got an OC you really really want to punch Tord in the face? GREAT - send me an ask or shoot me a message at redd-leader.tumblr.com 
> 
> Your support means everything to me!


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